The Road Taken

After a long stretch with no vacation, I had made it out to Cape Cod, where the weather was beautiful and the beaches were empty, when I got a phone call with some professional news that pissed me off.

The old me would have wallowed, tantrumed, or tried to corral a sympathy posse. But, seasoned by the difficult events of the past few years, I decided to try a more blissful path. I hopped in the Saab convertible inherited from my Dad
and took a drive along a one-lane dirt road, over a bridge onto a small island that is mostly a nature preserve.

Nearing the shoreline, I rounded a bend and was suddenly confronted by a crater only a 4WD SUV could survive. I tried to turn around, but on my right was a fence and to my left, a swamp.

Within seconds, my front tires sank into the big muddy and I was literally spinning my wheels. I had to call the local towing company, without being able to report exactly where I was. It took a while, and though I was immobilized, I had what some in the biz like to call an "emotional journey." Thinking about how this wouldn't be the car I would choose to own, but I was trying to honor my Dad; how I didn't pick this particular vacation, but it was family so it was a gift; how I had gone out trying not to be a burden to those around me, so of course instead I found a way to further burden myself.

Eventually the tow truck driver -- a white haired hippie -- found me and pulled me out. Seventy bucks later, I had to drive ten miles to the nearest car wash just to demuddify.

At first I thought: so much for the restorative drive. But then I decided, metaphors are what you let them be. The story wasn't about getting stuck, it was about being freed. And laughing at myself.